Martin Chuzzlewit

He was shown, by the degenerate successor of Mr Bailey, into the
dining-parlour; where--for his visit was expected--Mrs Todgers
immediately appeared.

'You are dressed, I see, for the wedding,' he said.

Mrs Todgers, who was greatly flurried by the preparations, replied in
the affirmative.

'It goes against my wishes to have it in progress just now, I assure
you, sir,' said Mrs Todgers; 'but Miss Pecksniff's mind was set upon it,
and it really is time that Miss Pecksniff was married. That cannot be
denied, sir.'

'No,' said Mr Chuzzlewit, 'assuredly not. Her sister takes no part in
the proceedings?'

'Oh, dear no, sir. Poor thing!' said Mrs Todgers, shaking her head, and
dropping her voice. 'Since she has known the worst, she has never left
my room; the next room.'

'Is she prepared to see me?' he inquired.

'Quite prepared, sir.'

'Then let us lose no time.'

Mrs Todgers conducted him into the little back chamber commanding the
prospect of the cistern; and there, sadly different from when it had
first been her lodging, sat poor Merry, in mourning weeds. The room
looked very dark and sorrowful; and so did she; but she had one friend
beside her, faithful to the last. Old Chuffey.

When Mr Chuzzlewit sat down at her side, she took his hand and put it
to her lips. She was in great grief. He too was agitated; for he had not
seen her since their parting in the churchyard.

'I judged you hastily,' he said, in a low voice. 'I fear I judged you
cruelly. Let me know that I have your forgiveness.'

She kissed his hand again; and retaining it in hers, thanked him in a
broken voice, for all his kindness to her since.

'Tom Pinch,' said Martin, 'has faithfully related to me all that you
desired him to convey; at a time when he deemed it very improbable that
he would ever have an opportunity of delivering your message. Believe
me, that if I ever deal again with an ill-advised and unawakened
nature, hiding the strength it thinks its weakness, I will have long and
merciful consideration for it.'

'You had for me; even for me,' she answered. 'I quite believe it. I said
the words you have repeated, when my distress was very sharp and hard to
bear; I say them now for others; but I cannot urge them for myself.
You spoke to me after you had seen and watched me day by day. There
was great consideration in that. You might have spoken, perhaps,
more kindly; you might have tried to invite my confidence by greater
gentleness; but the end would have been the same.'

He shook his head in doubt, and not without some inward self-reproach.

'How can I hope,' she said, 'that your interposition would have
prevailed with me, when I know how obdurate I was! I never thought at
all; dear Mr Chuzzlewit, I never thought at all; I had no thought,
no heart, no care to find one; at that time. It has grown out of my
trouble. I have felt it in my trouble. I wouldn't recall my trouble such
as it is and has been--and it is light in comparison with trials which
hundreds of good people suffer every day, I know--I wouldn't recall
it to-morrow, if I could. It has been my friend, for without it no one
could have changed me; nothing could have changed me. Do not mistrust me
because of these tears; I cannot help them. I am grateful for it, in my
soul. Indeed I am!'